


Snowblindness

by Teawithmagician



Series: Billy & Goody [3]
Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Angst, Codependency, F/M, Genderbending, Het, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-12
Updated: 2016-12-12
Packaged: 2018-09-08 03:07:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8828080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teawithmagician/pseuds/Teawithmagician
Summary: Goody is ill, and he is going to die. Billy doesn't think he is going to die because it's just a flu. Things get more serious when Billy gets infected and Goody faces one of the greatest fears of his life.





	

**Author's Note:**

> *fem!Billy  
> *Goody REGRETS  
> *snow

They stick in the mountain inn in the middle of the blizzard because Goody is ill. He demands his flask and Billy let him make a few sips and a few more. Goody sits in the old dusty armchair before the fireplace covered in a blanket the hostess brings him and prepares to die.

“I have never thought it would be like this,” he tells Billy solemnly. “There are no owls in such a snow frenzy. But still, there must be one which wing brings me the reckoning.”

Billy sits in another chair and drinks coffee from the pannikin. There are three guests in the inn at that time, as the mail wagon has already left: Goody, Billy and a man in round glasses in a thick black coat, looking like a doctor, a lawyer and a traveling salesman in one old knitted scarf.

“All this white blindness,” Goody waves his hand, “is a pretty good metaphor for death. The snowy cradle embraces me and I am no more. It's no better than dying from a gun, though it's harder to get accustomed to the thought you are slowly leaving this world right from your comfortable chair.”

When Billy gets up and comes to a kettle to have some more coffee, she asks the doctor-salesman-lawyer man if he is actually a doctor. No, he answers, shivering from the cold, I am a photographer. If you seek for a help for your master, I cannot help you.

Billy looks at him and says nothing. She gets used to the fact everyone who see her and Robicheaux together, decide Goody is Billy's master. They decide more if Billy is dressed up like a girl, but she never wears dresses when doing business, and the travel is for business only.

Goody shakes from a fit of coughing, spitting saliva into his hand. He is waiting for the blood to come, but it never comes out. Goody tells Billy stories about how they survived at the military front, baked corn bread and fainted, weakened by never ending dysentery. Goody was so lucky he even got pneumonia at the swamps.

“You can't even imagine,” Goody talks covering his mouth with the arm as he barks from coughing, “how it is like lying in the muddy grass soaking with water, waiting for your death to come, unsure even about your rifle, if it fires in such a moist or leaves you defenseless.”

Billy yawns, not trying to pretend she is interested. She can tell Goody how it is like being the sole survivor in the camp mowed by the camp fever. One day Billy woke up in the arms of her mother, which were stone cold and rigid while her father was rocking over the fire, trying to set it once again with a flint jumping in his spotted hands.

When Goody gets out from the armchair, declaring he ought to have a rest in a horizontal position, Billy sits before the fireplace, watching the dance of the flares gloomily. Young black maid glances at Billy from the counter with a slight interest. As a man, Billy considers herself handsome, as a woman, she is unsure about the fact of her existence. 

The hostess tries to help Goody getting to his bed which stands behind the screen. Goody politely rejects her offer while sheerly enjoying it, he likes to be paid attention at more than others though he says he doesn't. Billy takes out Goody's flask and weights it in the hand. Goody drinks too much, but he ceases drinking as he promises. Billy doesn't want to share his drinking problem, but her head is full of dark clouds.

Billy opens the flask and drinks. Goody wanted to make it with two stops only, the whole passage, and Billy insisted they made only one to spare the time and the money. Goody told the weather didn't fit her plans, and Billy said they made the first stop and looked if they were able to spare the second. The first stop was going to be long.

They share the bed because the bed is wide enough for two. Men sometimes sleep in the same bed while keeping most of the clothes on, Billy knows it can be. She walks behind the screen and takes off the jacket, leaving the vest on. Having taken off the boots, she gets under the blanket and lies on her belly, her fists under her chin. The candles and the lamps slowly go off, Goody breathes with a sibilation in the dark.

“Bai Ling,” Goody whispers when Billy starts feeling sleepy. 

“Shi de,” Billy answers. Goody understands most of the simple Chinese words. He hardly speaks, but he understands. 

“I wish we had more time. I wish I were a better man for you. If we met years ago, when I was young, I would appreciate you more.”

“No, you couldn't. When you were younger, you spent your time gambling, drinking, and horse-racing. You wouldn't even notice me when you were younger. I was nobody, I am nobody. You were a big man, and now you are nobody too.”

“You have a snake's tongue,” Goody snaps irritatedly. Good, he's angry, that means he's alive. Billy puts her hand on his forehead, it's warm but not sizzling hot.

“When you are nobody you can see me not only like a stupid Chinese. You can see who I am. I like it.”

“I've never taken you for a stupid Chinese. Or, at least, not for such a long time you should worry about it,” Goody says, and Billy puts her hand on his mouth.

“You take people taking care of you for granted. You always had somebody to take care of you. I didn't from the time I was ten.”

“I will take care of you,” Goody answers. Billy feels his lips moving under her hand, touching her skin. 

“You can't even take care of yourself.” 

Billy wants to tell Goody more and strains her ears instead. There are too many people in the inn and too many curiosity.

The lawyer-doctor-salesman man is sleeping, Billy can hear him snorting in the darkness on the other side of the room. There are servants and hostess too, but servants sleep in the kitchen and hostess use the outbuilding. The inn is safe, and Billy wants to talk no more.

They lie in the darkness, Billy's hand on Goody's mouth. She closes her eyes. Goody takes her arm and puts it aside gently. Billy shoves it under her belly to feel warmer and feels warmer not because of it. Goody embraces her, dragging her closer to his skinny side. His jacket is still on.

“There can be a house in red pines,” Goody says, coughing in the pillow. “A white one, with pillars. Flowers, a whole garden of them, and a servant to take care of. Big rooms with large windows, and a piano – I think I'll need one. You can be sitting at the window in a green dress, green will fit you well, I am sure about it, - in small lace gloves and ride only if you want to, not because we need to move faster.”

“You will never have money enough to buy such a place,” Billy says. 

Goody gets sentimental sometimes, and she wants him to be more grounded, but that's one of the things he can't promise her. She doesn't like him that way, it's one of the things Billy will never be able to afford. There are no houses in the red pines for them, Billy knows it and hates to be treated with fairy-tales like a child.

“Have you ever been in Mexico?” Goody asks. So, he must have an idea. Not a plan, Billy is better in planning, but the ideas are all Goody's.

“No,” Billy feels slight interest. She tells herself it is a bad idea, but she wants to know more.

“There are places with red pines and white houses. I will take you to one if I make this night through,” Goody sighs, and Billy freezes in her disappointment.

It is no plan. Those are just promises men tell you in the night and never keep in the day. If Goody has a plan, she will spare no detail as he needs to know the plan is smart, he is smart. 

Goody's arm rests across Billy's chest, moving as she breathes. Her breasts are too small to bulge from the vest, Goody must have his time finding it. Billy is ready to push him with her elbow, but he is not looking for her body. Goody starts to speak, and Billy realizes it's French.

She doesn't speak French well. Goody taught her, but her French is basic, she understands a bit and can read, but Goody speaks long, complicated French, and this French has a rhythm. Billy guesses it must be poetry. How stupid must be a man to read poems thinking he is dying, Billy thinks indignantly.

No. Not indignantly. She thinks Goody is a fool but she doesn't want him to stop. Nobody has ever read poetry by memory for her. It is as useless as chocolates and flowers, but Billy guesses she likes it. She likes the way how stupid he can be for her with the houses in the red pines and poems in the language she doesn't quite understand just because he thinks he is dying.

“You are not dying,” Billy warns Goody, “in the morning you will regret how silly you are now.”

“I won't. A Southern gentleman never refuses or regrets his words,” Goody mumbles in Billy's neck. 

Billy wakes up alone in bed and she feels like being smashed by a burning anvil. Billy wants to get up but she can't even sit, she moves forward and falls back. Her head is going round and round, she can see the ceiling swinging. Billy raises her hand to touch her forehead. It must be glowing from heat as well as her neck and the top of her chest in the unbuttoned collar of her shirt.

Billy's mouth is dry. She sees the pannikin on the stool before the bed and tries to reach it, but she only pushes the pannikin on the floor, pouring the remains of the coffee. Billy can hear jolly voices and the ringing of the forks and plates from behind the screen. They sound like coming from a mile's distance, vague and dim.

“Billy, get up and come for a breakfast,” Billy can hear Goody's voice. “Madame Catherina's coffee and bacon omelet have just raised me from the dead. You ought to try some immediately.”

Billy moves her head on the pillow. The pillow is all wet. She hasn't been ill since she was ten, and even if it felt like she was, it wasn't so heavy. Billy clenches her fingers nervously. No, she is not like Goody. No death owls and reckonings. Goody's been ill and he must have infected her as they slept together. Nana told Billy, never sleep next to the one who was ill, she knew that for sure. 

“Billy, are you going to join us?” Goody asks once again. The smell of fried fat and eggs is thick and oily, it gets into Billy's nose and she feels sick. Goody's boots rumble like cavalry as he approaches, stepping on the screechy wooden floor. The floor squeals and shrieks, begging for mercy. The sound is unbearable, Billy closes her eyes and wishes it's all over.

“Billy, get up and honor us your presence already,” Goody says. The smell of smoke is more familiar and it doesn't make Billy sick. She wants to smoke, but she has left cigarettes in her jacket pocket. “Billy, you... Billy?”

Billy doesn't remember the days she is ill, it can be a week or it can be a couple of days. She remembers a church at the railroad camp. The church was a tent, just like all the building there, but it had a large wooden cross painted black on a stick before the entrance. The priest was a tall bald man who smelled with bourbon like Goody and spoke of hell often. Sometimes you could get soup there, so Billy went to church when she knew it would be soup for sure.

Soup never came alone, it always came with a preaching told in a rising voice. Due to the priest, Hell was a place of terrible flames, hotter than in locomotive's firebox, and destined for the yellow demons abandoned by the God in case they wouldn't confess and was baptized. Once you got there, you burned, and burned, and burned but never turned into the ashes to suffer forever. Billy had never believed in the camp church's god, but she feels like she gets into the Hell now.

People come to Billy's bed and talk. They must be railroad doctors, the one who decide they don't have enough medicine. They turn Billy and move her and put a strange smelling towel at her forehead. Someone try to feed her with soup, but Billy spits the soup out. She is thirsty, and she asks for water, mixing up the languages and the words. Someone tries to unbutton her vest and Billy starts to fight, grabbing the hands and pushing them away. She is too weak to fight.

“Stop squirming.” She hears a familiar voice and opens her eyes. The lids are cast iron heavy. It's twilight behind the screen but still it's too much light for her. “It's me, it's Goody – good old Sharpshooter Robicheaux. Ladies wanted to wipe you with a sponge, but I told them the favor is mine.”

Billy looks at Goody and doesn't recognize him. Who is that man? His beard and hair are mousy gray, and his eyes are older than his face. He has a stupid beard and a stupid look on his face which is frightened and lost. His jacket is off and sleeves are rolled, and he has a hand of a man who has never sat at anyone's bedside. He can't sponge Billy. If he takes off her shirt he knows she is a woman and kicks her away.

Billy waves her hand, but Goody pushes at away and unbuttons her shirt. Billy is too tired to argue, she closes her eyes and pretends she is asleep. If he kicks her away, he kicks her away, she will be dead to that moment by all the means. She is ill, she's got a fever coming from the old mattresses and blankets. No prayers or curses can help, and being a dying woman is no worse than being a dying man.

When Billy is awake for the second time, it's dark. A feeble glowing comes from behind the screen, and it's not enough to see the room clearly. The smell of bourbon is heavy, and Billy's legs are pressed into the mattress. 

It rings in her ears, so she doesn't hear the mumbling at first. When Billy's eyes get accustomed to the darkness, she sees a man sitting on the stool and lying with his elbows on the blanket, rolled her legs. His hair is tousled and he smells with bourbon like the one who has been drinking no less than for a few days with no breaks. 

“Dear Lord in Heavens,” Goody says. “We can discuss how it came so far forever, but my sins are my sins, and I will pay for them in the end. I promised you I would never raise my hand to kill again even if I have to, and I stick to the promise as hard as I could. No matter that, you've stripped me of everything I had, leaving me humbled in the dust. If you have plans for taking more of me, Lord, the one thing I beg you for is don't take her. I know it hasn't been that way in the beginning, but I haven't been the same man for all this time. I need her and I love as much as I can for a selfish animal I possibly am. Is it enough for you or still isn't?”

Goody sounds desperate. He is so pathetic with his prayers, and laments, and oaths. Doesn't he know that the gods only take, and never give? If they decide your death, there's no oath to save you from your destiny. A tough lesson to learn, Billy managed it when being a child. Nothing you have belongs to you, everything can be taken. Don't hold, you won't be able to keep it, don't beg as no one's listening.

You can either fight and die or just die if you can't fight. Not fair yet a choice.

Billy puts her hand on Goody's head and he starts and raises her head. His face is so white it glows in the darkness like a ghost. Billy remembers seeing this face opposite to the sun. The standing man falls, Goody approaches and kisses Billy's hand. That's a perfect shot, mon cher, he says. Even king Solomon has never had Shulamith so deadly I do.

“Everyone dies,” Billy says, hardly moving her lips. Goody wants to hear something else, but Billy tells the truth, and he has a problem accepting that. “You can't escape.”

“You can't die, Bail Ling. I love you.”

“No, you don't. You don't love me. You use me,” Billy blinks, her eyes are full of sand.

“That's untrue, Bai Ling, you know it,” Goody responds quietly. He takes Billy's hand, breathing at her fingers.

“No. You've been going to the woman who sold their love. You didn't even notice me.”

“I didn't know you like I do know. But I do now! I do know.”

“You don't love me because I don't wear a dress. Because I am not white,” Billy says. 

She wants to tell him that he doesn't love her because she has nobody but him. Because she is lonely, even more than he is. He lost his family to war, he never saw them leaving, and Billy saw. It hurts deep inside like a broken rib. She wants but she never tells.

“Now that's a bu... A lie, my darling. My best friend is the same color with my former slaves, and so what? I used to believe there was a difference. I don't think so now,” Goody tries to sound reasonable, but Billy has another thought.

“Are you my friend?”

“Yes, yes. I am your friend,” Goody's clenches Billy's hand, presses it to his face and shakes. Billy's hand becomes wet, Goody is crying.

Billy wakes up for the third time in the morning and tries to understand what has changed. The anvil is gone, she feels no heat. She lies in the bed and hears servants washing the pots and lawyer-doctor salesman man demanding his coffee. Goody is still half on the stool, half across her legs, sleeping. Billy's legs are numb and Billy tries to move them. That wakes Goody up.

Awaken, he looks like an owl he is so afraid of. His hair is tousled even more than ever, and his beard stands upright. He looks at Billy purblind, blinking, and shakes his head like a dog. He is so funny Billy smiles. 

“Billy!” Goody grabs Billy's hands, nearly falling from the stool. 

“M,” Billy answers, nodding. 

It's hard to talk, she doesn't feel good enough and doesn't know how much time they've spent there, and how much time she will need to get better and back to the saddle. After a blank space Billy had in her head, thoughts return swiftly. She is overwhelmed by their dashing flow, and she is so hungry she wants to eat a horse. And drink a barrel, possibly, as her mouth is dry like a desert. 

“I thought I was going to lose you, Billy. Never frighten your old man so much!” Goody exclaims. “You can't die before me. I hate to be spared of your company and possibly will go down drinking as there are nobody to spoil every my little moment of glory with...”

“I missed you too,” Billy says, coughing. “Get me water. I am thirsty.”

Goody looks slightly relieved when Billy cuts him off and stands up, remaining upright pretty easy. He puts his fingers on his collar, checking something on the inside. Before stepping out of the screen, Goody lingers and asks, looking at Billy half-turned.

“You've been in a fever, raving, losing consciousness. You don't possibly remember what happened then, or what you've heard. One can say a lot of things if believing his... erm... aimé is in danger.”

“No,” Billy says with pleasure. “I remember everything you said, including the house in Mexico and your prayers.” 

Goody goes slightly pale when he hears her answer.


End file.
